


Bridging the Distance

by xtwilightzx (blackidyll)



Series: Between the Lines [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Gift Giving, Holding Hands, Human Names, Kissing, Literary References & Allusions, Long Distance Relationship, M/M, followed by more fluff, one instance of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-03
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 20:17:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/828422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackidyll/pseuds/xtwilightzx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s Arthur, now, and it’s… complicated. Heart-joltingly, endearingly, never-gonna-trade-this-for-<i>anything</i> complicated, with so much history and the freaking Atlantic between them, and Alfred’s never done too well with separation once he’s latched onto something. </p><p>But with the both of them working towards each other, the distance between them doesn't seem so great anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bridging the Distance

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for a Secret Santa exchange on the [usxuk](usxuk.livejournal.com) LiveJournal community, to the prompt: Something about how America and England manage to keep their long distance relationship--do they chat or email each other or give a call every night?
> 
> The subject matter is very dear to my heart and I enjoyed writing this immensely. This story is set in the [Between the Lines](http://archiveofourown.org/works/561135) universe but reads perfectly well on its own :)

Alfred has seen how people in love act, from those who fall in lust at first sight and build a relationship from there to those who grow up together and simply take a step further to become lovers. Alfred’s never had a lot of trouble making the jump by the time he’s  _ready_  to make the jump (just because he tended to take forever to make up his mind and had blushing tendencies those first few times don’t count), but it’s Arthur, now, and it’s… complicated. Heart-joltingly, endearingly, never-gonna-trade-this-for- _anything_  complicated, with so much history and the freaking Atlantic between them, and well—  
  
Alfred’s never done too well with separation once he’s latched onto something, heart and soul.   
  
Arthur is still incredibly busy with the EU and Alfred has his own political situations to deal with, and the part of Alfred that's trying very, very hard to be as mature as he promised Arthur he'd try to be stops him from sending texts or calling or IM-ing or emailing Arthur every hour or so for the hours he's awake. Besides, just because they're together now doesn't mean Arthur will deign to answer any of his text messages.   
  
("The longer I ignore you, the more coherent your text messages become, so I might as well wait for them to make sense before deciphering them," Arthur tells him over the phone one time, and Alfred can definitely hear the smirk in his words.  
  
But later that evening when it's late in London, Alfred gets a text message that simply says  _Good night, love_. Alfred doesn't reply because Arthur would already be asleep, but he carries that warm glowing feeling with him for the rest of the day until he goes to bed himself).   
  
It's just that Arthur still loves the old methods of communication - handwritten letters and hand-wrapped packages, loving crafted and put together. But they take so long to arrive, and what's the point of letters when they talk on the phone every couple of days and always on the weekends? Alfred likes the romance of Arthur's preferred forms of correspondence (more than he'll ever admit), but—   
  
"I miss him, y’know?" Alfred tips his chair back, watching shadows chase themselves across the ceiling. "The phone calls are great, but I know he doesn't like texts or IMs much so it’s really, really hard to talk when we’re both busy. And with the timezones, our breaks don’t even match up."  
  
It’s like sending a zillion texts into the abyss when it comes to Arthur. Alfred doesn’t even know if he reads most of them.   
  
"So, let me sum it up." Matthew sighs from across the table. "You just want more of Arthur's attention. Right?"   
  
Alfred opens his mouth to protest, then thinks about it, and nods.   
  
"That's nothing new, Al," Matt tells him, and goes back to numbering the presentation notes and reports strewn between them. "Why is this a new crisis again? We’ve had this conversation. A lot. Even when we were kids. Just replace 'phones' with 'letters.'"   
  
"Ma-att." Alfred lets the slightest hint of a whine seep into his voice. He considers pelting a crumbled paper ball at Matt's head, but then Matt'll clam up on purpose and Alfred will be left picking at the same issues on his own.   
  
Matthew smiles. "I'm kidding. I know it's different. You're in love."   
  
Alfred considers protesting again but it's very obviously true, even if it's horribly sappy. He flips out his phone as a diversion, flicking through his photo album and – really?  _Really,_  he doesn't have any images of Arthur and himself together. Lots of group photos, lots of photos of Arthur with other nations, one or two of just Arthur alone and... yeah. That’s about it.   
  
Alfred shoots a glare at his phone for the severe lack of Arthur-ness on it and turns his attention back to the ceiling. "I just want to talk to him  _right now_ , sometimes. There has gotta be a way of combining Arthur's modes of communication with the speed of modern technology. Or something!" he says loudly, and the meeting room door clicks open in the silence after his words.   
  
"Matthew, Alfred. There you are."  
  
Alfred spins around because he  _knows_  that accent and there Arthur is, framed by the door and backlit by the corridor's bright lights. For one moment Alfred thinks Arthur has overheard him, but when he locks gazes with Arthur, the Briton smiles, soft and sweet.   
  
"Hey," Alfred says quietly, because they haven't seen each other outside of a meeting since they both flew in for the conference, which really makes it over seven weeks since they've seen each other as themselves, not nations.   
  
"Hello yourself." A hint of amusement threads through Arthur's voice. "Kiku wants all of us in the East Room.”  
  
"Sure." Matthew gathers his half of his notes and shoots Alfred a very pointed look. "See you two there in a bit."   
  
Alfred stands as Arthur steps over; the Briton brushes a kiss against Alfred's lips before pulling his leather gloves off and lacing their fingers together. "Let's go," Arthur says and Alfred just nods, feeling warm and cozy and very content with the world, all former jumbled thoughts shelved away for when Arthur isn’t at his side, and that’s that. 

*

Alfred is running late one morning, so he slams his front door open while trying to juggle his coffee flask, his briefcase and his phone and almost trips headlong over a boxed package lying on his doorstep.   
  
He quite graciously does not kick it out of the way, because that would be childish and also because there is the United Kingdom’s coat of arms imprinted discreetly on the side, marking it a package from the British Embassy.   
  
_Why didn't they just ring the door bell?_  Alfred grumbles to himself, and a voice at the back of his mind that sounds suspiciously like Arthur tells him that maybe they did and he had been too busy running around his kitchen like a beheaded chicken to notice.  
  
Since he’s late anyway, Alfred sets his briefcase down and rips through the packaging, unearthing a stack of books in hardcover and thick, quality paper. One of them is a huge, huge tome and as thick as a brick –  _The Complete Works of William Shakespeare_  – and there’s got to be at least a dozen or so of the books in all.   
  
There is a little square envelope tucked into the cover of the huge Shakespeare volume, discreet, with a note sheet made of far nicer parchment than such a little note should be made from.   
  
_Best read the other side, Alfred_ , the note simply says, but Alfred would recognize that handwriting anywhere. The words are written in the same beautifully graceful hand as the letters Alfred used to receive as a child, greetings from the high seas and tales from the land across the Atlantic.   
  
He flips the note around – it’s a card, actually, one of those inspirational quote-y ones. “‘Knowing I loved my books, he furnished me, from mine own library with volumes that I prize above my dukedom,’” Alfred reads aloud, then flips the card back to the front, staring at Arthur’s message.   
  
He has his phone out and ringing through within seconds.   
  
“Arthur, have you eaten one too many fruity scones?"   
  
“I beg your pardon?” Arthur says, the line crackling.   
  
“I got your package.” Alfred doesn’t mean to sound so happy over a pile of old books, but he’s grinning and he suspects he sounds like he is. “What, trying to culture me up again?”   
  
“Ah.” Alfred hears the soft click of a door, the sudden absence of background murmuring and knows the exact moment Arthur gives him his full attention when the Briton immediately picks on his grammar. “‘Culture’ as you mean it is not a verb, so kindly refrain from using the word as such. Unless you’re trying to tell me that I can grow you in a laboratory dish like some horrible strain of bacteria—”   
  
“Hey, the way it’s used makes the rules. Betcha that if I said it often enough, it’ll be normal to culture up someone and then you’ll be the one using it wrongly!”   
  
If Arthur could find a way to throttle him through the phone, the other nation would. “Shouldn’t you be at work by now?”   
  
“I was heading out, but someone dropped this huge box full of books in front of my front door so I was curious, y’know? I almost broke my neck tripping over it.”  
  
Arthur mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “you’d win in a battle against the pavement, you ridiculously strong fool,” then clears his throat. “They were just lying about my home. Think nothing of this, all right? It was no effort at all, and you’re very welcome.”   
  
Alfred strokes a hand lightly over the book covers, over the clean lines and etched titles, weathered with time and age but so lovingly kept that there are barely any nicks on the spines or edges. “Hey, does this mean I can send you another bunch of DVDs now? You got really pissed the last time I tried that.”   
  
There’s a distinctly affronted silence from Arthur’s end.   
  
Alfred shakes his bangs out of his eyes, grinning. “Speak now or forever hold your peace.”   
  
“Have a good morning, Alfred,” Arthur says, sounding peevish and – pigs might be flying! – mildly amused, and hangs up on him with little fanfare.   
  
Alfred shoves his phone into his pocket and picks up his abandoned flask. The scent of rich coffee mingled with heavy parchment make for a surprisingly good combination.   
  
He’s definitely late for work, but yep. The day’s looking good.   
  


*

Alfred ducks out from the meeting room and makes his way down the familiar corridors. It isn't hard to smile at the people he meets along the way, mainly staff who have known him since their starting days, and yet it's still a complete relief to close the door behind him and lean back against the worn walls of the small office he keeps in the White House.   
  
There are days when his own government and his own policies frustrate him; him, the supposed embodiment of his people's ideals and collective hopes. These are the days when being who he is can feel so incredibly isolating, no matter how well-meaning his Congress is or the slight worried glance his boss shoots at him just before Alfred slips out, the moment the call for the mid-morning break rings out.   
  
Alfred pulls Texas off, pinching at the bridge of his nose, and stares across the office to the wide windows, the bright sunlight and the well-manicured lawns.   
  
His phone beeps, a gentle reminder of the meeting's continuation in an hour, and Alfred has to resist the urge to turn it off and climb through the window, shimmying down the balcony and most definitely triggering off his internal security crew, but the fiasco would be a great distraction and maybe he wouldn't think so much about the bubble of frustration lodged in his throat.   
  
He can hear Arthur snarking at him about responsibility and turns around, backtracks down the corridor, catching one of the secretaries and telling her to pass a message to his boss, giving her a comforting pat of reassurance that has her straightening and blinking at him, mildly confused but understanding.  
  
Alfred smiles again, lopsided, and steps out into the sunshine.   
  
He doesn't make the call no matter how much he wants to - it's meetings all afternoon and possibly evening for Arthur – doesn't want to have to listen to the rings of Arthur's phone until it switches to voicemail or Alfred finally just hangs up. It's more than just wanting to hear Arthur's voice; it's about being near another nation, to share this odd frustration that lingers despite the crisp autumn air, the smell of damp coolness and the crunch of dead leaves under his feet, and—  
  
Arthur would understand that, better than anyone else. As much as Alfred hates to think of the span of years, Arthur's much longer history another point of separation between them, the older nation always did.   
  
A little girl runs past him on the sidewalk, dark brown curls streaming behind her, laughter clear and bright as she dashes across the pavement to be scooped up by her mother. Alfred shares a smile the mother, grins down at the girl and continues on his way, reassured as he always is by his people.   
  
It's the girl's cheerful "Have a good day, mister!" and enthusiastic wave that does it; Alfred waves back to her and pulls his phone out, lets the moment of simple clarity turn into action as he types out the text.   
  
_I miss you_ , he sends, and doesn't include all the other thoughts clamoring in his head.   
  
He gazes at the photo attached to Arthur's contact entry on his phone, a shot of the other nation in a quiet moment of contemplation, gazing out to the side, one hand up near his face, fingers curling slightly. Alfred hadn't thought he could catch Arthur so off-guard like that, looking transient and ethereal like one of his fairy tale creatures but for the slight smile on Arthur's face, secretive and real.   
  
The photo also reminds Alfred of the shot he didn’t have time to snap just moments afterwards, when Arthur had turned and that smile had flickered out in surprise, only to return twice fold, small but joyous, at seeing Alfred.   
  
Alfred's grinning to himself before he knows it, knows how silly it is for the adrenaline to be coursing through his veins over a simple text message, feeling breathless and a little buzzed with nerves. Just imagining Arthur's flustered face when he opens up the text and the slow flush spreading across his cheeks is enough to satisfy Alfred for the moment and banish some of that lingering loneliness to the depths of his heart.   
  
He breaks into a jog, loosening his tie from his collar with a quick tug, heading back to the White House.   
  
The text comes in just as Alfred is about to switch his phone over to silent mode for the meeting, a cheerful chime barely heard over the din of discussions and arguments. It's from Arthur, Alfred realizes with a jolt, surprised enough at the rarity that he sneaks his phone under his desk and flicks through the message.   
  
For a moment Alfred wonders if he's gotten the right message, but it still looks like a book title and a page number no matter how long he stares at it. _The Complete Poetry and Selected Prose of John Donne_ , what the heck. Didn’t that guy write all those depressing stuff that Arthur’s so inexplicably fond of?   
  
"I can't believe you're throwing me freaking literature after a declaration like that," Alfred says under his breath, muttering to himself until the Secretary of State shoots him a calm look, one eyebrow arched.   
  
Alfred quickly turns his attention to what his boss is saying, shoving his phone into his pocket. But his fingers brush against the subtle weight of it every now and then, absent-mindedly. He doesn’t remember much of John Donne’s stuff, despite Arthur’s attempts at one point – walking around St Paul’s Cathedral, looking at the memorials – the man’s almost as old as Alfred is, and Alfred’s far more interested in the future than the past.   
  
He makes a run back home to grab a quick lunch and to collect a few stray documents when he remembers the pile of books Arthur had sent to him a few weeks ago, stacked neatly on his desk in his study. He gravitates there, although Alfred tells himself it’s because he’s looking for his copy of the quarter four budgetary report. Yep, that’s right; it’s probably sitting on top of that stack since those huge books are taking up quite a chunk of desk space.   
  
Sure enough, the collection of John Donne poems is part of the stash, and Alfred flips to the appropriate page, feeling more and more curious as the seconds go by. He’s not too hot with poems, and the title of this particular one –  _A Valediction Forbidding Mourning_  – makes little sense to him, but Arthur’s anticipated that, marking out one particular passage with light penciled notations: 

> _But we by a love so much refined,  
>  That our selves know not what it is,  
>  Inter-assured of the mind,  
>  Care less, eyes, lips, and hands to miss.  
>    
>  Our two souls therefore, which are one,  
>  Though I must go, endure not yet  
>  A breach, but an expansion,  
>  Like gold to airy thinness beat._

And next to the verse, in the margin, are small notations in Arthur’s handwriting:

> _Everyone remembers the conceit – that’s an extended metaphor – of the drafting compass coming full circle, but I rather like these stanzas best. It can be summed up so:_ _  
>   
>  A love so refined, as that between the poet and his wife, can survive even without the closeness of touch. Although we are physically apart, our souls remain united and the bond between us expands, like precious gold that stretches and lengthens without breaking when beaten._ _  
>   
>  If that explanation still baffles you, Alfred, it’s just this: the distance means little to my feelings for you. I’ll come home to you soon. Or you to me. Our next reunion won’t be very far off.  
>    
>  I’ll see you soon, love._

Alfred stares down at Arthur’s neat handwriting for a long moment before his brain catches up with him.   
  
Holy shit.   
  
Half of what he’s texting is completely gibberish (there’s a heck of a lot of eleventy-ones mixed with the exclamation marks) and Arthur’d be bitching him out if the Briton’s here in person, but Alfred has faith in Arthur’s decryption methods. He has an odd way of figuring out whatever Alfred’s trying to say, once he puts his mind to it.   
  
Alfred’s still staring at the poem, trying to figure out the parts Arthur didn’t make any notations on (having completely forgotten about lunch) when Arthur replies with three short sentences Alfred can just hear Arthur speaking, fondness under the wry tone.   
  
_I’m glad you enjoyed the poem, dear. Now stop fishing. My evening meeting is about to begin._  
  
Alfred can’t help the bark of laughter that escapes him; he’s still a little floored by Arthur’s message, and – man, Arthur’s shipped him a dozen books, compilations and collections and… that’s got to be a lot of quotes in there.   
  
His grin doesn’t quit even when his afternoon meeting drags an hour over. 

*

Alfred takes to keeping the same editions of Arthur’s books at his office for the odd times when he writes Arthur long emails and Arthur texts back – sometimes during his own meetings! – page and line numbers, and he has just gotten used to not blushing whenever his boss smiles at the sight of the books when he and Arthur have a fight.   
  
Arthur still gets into his moods occasionally and Alfred can still be obnoxiously smug and smart-alecky. At the end of the day they’re still themselves, which means that they fight on a regular basis. And sometimes, just sometimes, those fights scrap back the scars they both carry, Arthur’s words cutting deep to the bone or Alfred’s actions infuriating Arthur to the point where the Briton goes deathly pale and silent with the coldness of his emotions.   
  
It’s one of those fights.   
  
Alfred can’t remember who hung up first, he’s shaking so much, his head pounding and blood rushing in his ears. He throws himself into work, then abandons it and goes out running because the work’s the crux of the original argument before it derailed and collapsed, and the distance makes Alfred feel a hundred times worse when the hurt finally filters through the anger, like a deep hollow in his chest or the eerie silence of a battlefield populated only by shrapnel and numbness and the dead.   
  
In the late hours of the evening after he has worked the sharp edge off his emotions, Alfred sends the text messages. 

> _i ll keep my helmet on in case my head caves in_

It’s practically a death sentence to bother Arthur during those volatile times but Alfred sends the texts anyway, in irregular intervals. They’re not up for phone calls yet (they’ve been there, done that, and the resulting half-yelled half-furiously quiet exchange had been almost as disastrous as the original fight) and Alfred doesn’t apologize – they’re both too prideful for that, Alfred thinks as he sends off an image of his ceiling, shadowy and innocuous, before he goes back to totally random quotes or song lyrics that might not be so random but are safe because they’re not his words. 

> _as you lose the argument in a cable car. hanging above as the canyon comes between_

Alfred doesn’t use chat speak or shorthand or emoticons in those text messages. And he keeps sending them despite the silence because he knows Arthur well enough now. He has to keep pushing because Arthur will push back, eventually, but sometimes Arthur retreats into a space and a state of mind that Alfred cannot follow and doesn’t fully understand. 

> _do or dont do. there is no try_

Arthur has walked away once before; he has a will strong enough to rule half the world and possibly more but for anything that makes him vulnerable Arthur is just as likely to forfeit on logical principle as he is to fight to the death for it.   
  
Alfred won’t let him choose the former, though.   
  
_E. at least text me some pg #s_ , Alfred finally types, and wonders if the symbols come through as tired and drained as he feels. He hits the send button before he can think about it too much and dozes off in the quiet that follows, staring at the fingerprint smudges against the glow of his phone screen.  
  
It’s stupid o’clock in the very, very early morning when he wakes, startled and blinking rapidly to clear his eyes. The incessant tapping doesn’t stop and Alfred stumbles to his window, pulling Texas off with a wince and rubbing one hand against where they’d been pressed against his face, and yes, that  _is_  a tiny little bird standing on the window sill, looking up at him with beady black eyes before pecking its beak pointedly against the glass again.   
  
Alfred flips the window open and the little bird wastes no time hopping through and flitting to his shoulder, pulling lightly on Alfred’s hair. Alfred holds his arm up and it lands lightly in the palm of his hand, puffing out its orange chest and holding a leg out towards Alfred.   
  
It’s an English robin, Alfred realizes with a jolt, and his fingers feel large and very awkward as he carefully unties the thin roll of paper secured to the robin’s leg. He strokes Arthur’s national bird with a careful finger and flattens the paper against the table, angling it towards the lamp to read the tiny but neat handwriting. 

>   
>  _I have made no such pretension. I have faults enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch for. It is, I believe, too little yielding – certainly too little for the convenience of the world._ (Pride and Prejudice, ch 11)

  
And under that, in a slightly shaky but no less elegant hand: 

> _The side table in your living room. Beside the stacks of video games you no longer play._

Alfred knows that side table, the one wedged beside his couch where he conveniently sticks everything that gets in his way when he’s gaming. He picks his way over in the dark, flicking on one of the lamps and peering over the video games and magazines and—  
  
Arthur’s leather gloves, lying neatly atop each other, the ones that Arthur always wore in public and during meetings as if he could hide away his vulnerabilities, the ones that Arthur took off only when he’s at home or – just recently – whenever he’s together with Alfred. Alfred hadn’t quite noticed but he remembers now, skin on skin; the warm brush of a hand against his cheek, nails dragging lazily through his hair and strong, slim fingers laced between his own.   
  
The leather is soft and cool against his skin when he picks it up, and Alfred looks across the room to the robin perched on top of the television.   
  
“Sometimes, I really don’t understand your nation.”   
  
The robin simply cocks its head, staring back patiently, and Alfred lets out a slow breath, unable keep up the pretense.   
  
“And sometimes I think I know him too well.”   
  
The robin spreads its wings, alights, as Alfred pivots, going straight for his phone. He dials Arthur’s number because he’s memorized it somehow, despite having it on speed dial practically the day Arthur first gave it to him. He listens to the rings, an odd fluttering in the pit of his stomach, and then the line connects and the fluttering is replaced by a dropping feeling, as if his nerves threaten to leave him right that very moment.   
  
It’s quiet. Alfred knows Arthur is there, hears the soft breathing, the long pauses between them, the sound of someone working to stay calm and in control.   
  
“I’m sorry,” Alfred says.   
  
His heart aches, a soft, blunted pain in his chest, although Alfred knows there is no scientific backing for heartache as a clinical ailment.   
  
Arthur makes a soft noise at the back of his throat. Then—  
  
“I—I’m sorry, as well. Alfred…”  
  
Arthur trails off, the quiet falling between them once again, and doesn’t say anymore, doesn’t add addendums to the apology, no thinly veiled lectures, no justifications for what he had said during the fight. Alfred sinks onto his couch, tripping slightly in his tiredness and staying where he lands, head half-pillowed on the armrests.   
  
They breathe.   
  
Arthur breaks the silence first.   
  
“I wish…”  
  
“I know.”   
  
And Alfred does, really. Arthur speaks through actions and gestures, through oblique words and representations, symbolism a language the Briton is completely and utterly fluent in. He expresses his feelings in quotes, his heart inked and sealed within parchment, carried on robin wings.   
  
It works, Alfred thinks. It works for when they can’t be together, to convey their thoughts and feelings in person through words, through touch.   
  
But Arthur pushes on, his voice fierce for how low it is. “I wish I could be where you are. I just—”   
  
He stops for a moment to gather his words.   
  
“I want to be with you right now.”   
  
“… Arthur.”   
  
Alfred closes his eyes. He’s so tired, now that the tension has drained away; only realizes how much his muscles ache from being so tense now that the thoughts in his head have quieted down, the worry and hurt and distress soothed and blunted. His eyes hurt, a painful itchy-scratchiness behind his eyelids, and he’s suddenly overtaken by the intense urge to gather Arthur into his arms, to wrap them both up under the covers and bury his head against Arthur’s neck and his hair and just breathe the scent of him in, warm and  _present_.   
  
He wants so much that it hurts, all over again.   
  
Alfred opens his mouth to say that, wants – needs – Arthur to know, but what comes out is a sleepy gurgle of words, a yawn buried somewhere within it.   
  
Arthur makes a quiet noise of amusement. “Go to sleep, Alfred,” he says, softly and with a tenderness Alfred rarely hears – they’re not that kind of couple in their day-to-day lives, which makes it really, really special when it does happen.   
  
“Wha’ ‘bout you?” Alfred manages to get out, sinking further onto the couch, his phone half tucked between his ear and the cushions.   
  
“I will, as well.”   
  
It occurs to him that it’s stupid o’clock in very early morning plus some, which means it’s somewhere after dawn in London, which means Arthur probably has not slept at all the entire night and needs to get up for work, if he shouldn’t already be at it. But Arthur doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t make his goodbyes or hang up.   
  
Alfred falls asleep to the sound of Arthur’s breathing. 

*

Despite all the leery, knowing remarks Francis makes about him and Arthur, they don’t exactly get to see each other all that often. Between the grind of the internal work they do for their respective governments and the international conferences they’re obligated to attend, it’s hard to find time to relax in their own homes, much less fly across the Atlantic for personal visits.   
  
It’s not as simple as hopping into his trusty bomber anymore, flight goggles over his eyes and the wide blue skies for company, listening to Arthur swearing at him over the hissing radio communication at his recklessness and impulsivity the moment Alfred gets within frequency range.   
  
Arthur is at Alfred’s place this time around, charmingly awkward in the way he eyes the place like it’s territory that needs to be divided and conquered before he strides right into Alfred's living room without any prompting. He's brought a large suitcase with him and swats Alfred away when Alfred tries to peer into it, wondering if there’s another set of books or maybe a body in there. The way Europe has been bickering amongst itself, Alfred wouldn’t be surprised.   
  
"Seriously, what’s in there?"  
  
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Arthur smiles at him, the slightest hint of a smirk touching the curve of his lips. He maneuvers gracefully around Alfred, heading towards the kitchen to brew a pot of tea, and Alfred dogs his footsteps in case he accidentally sets the electric stove on fire (seriously, it has nothing to do with the distracting sliver of skin between Arthur’s hair and collar or the light curving over the clean lines of the Briton’s cheekbones or even Arthur himself, standing there in his kitchen, just an arm’s length away).   
  
Later, Alfred watches Arthur move in and out of rooms from his position on the couch. He suspects Arthur has already gone through his living room when Alfred was making dinner; there is a plain box tucked discreetly under one of his chairs and Arthur’s gloves – a new pair, thin supple leather – well, Alfred has them now, after Arthur pulled them off in the car on the drive back from the airport, their fingers brushing when they fought over who’d carry that darned suitcase into Alfred’s house.   
  
“Dead body parts?” Alfred says as Arthur steps over the tangle of wires surrounding his game consoles, carrying a rectangular paper bag holder dangling on its string handles, sealed at the top with opaque tape.   
  
“No. You play too many zombie apocalypse games,” Arthur tells him and sweeps from the room. From the click further down the corridor, not even the closet near the front door has been spared. Alfred leans out, one hand anchored to the couch’s back for balance, watching as Arthur disappears behind a curtain of coats and hangers.   
  
“Besides—” Arthur slides out a moment later, his hair tousled after whatever he’d been doing in the closet, and he looks so casual and graceful and completely harmless that it makes what he says next even more disturbing, “—if there was someone who truly deserves being reduced to small clumps of flesh and bones, well, there wouldn’t be a trace of them left by the time I’m through with them.”  
  
The smile on Arthur’s face should really be a smirk, but it’s – yeah, it’s still a smile, secretive and devious and just a little creepy, and the look Arthur throws him makes Alfred want to back up a bit and press forward at the same time.   
  
He settles for catching Arthur’s hand as the Briton passes by the couch, sliding his fingers over Arthur’s wrist. “Done stashing stuff all over my house?”  
  
Alfred’s thumb is pressed up against Arthur’s pulse point and he can’t tell whose heart beat he’s feeling, pulsing between that light touch.   
  
It’s subtle, but Arthur’s smile grows softer and noticeably less creepy. “For now.”   
  
Alfred pulls Arthur down onto the couch, ignoring the way Arthur elbows him out of the way and sits himself down primly, although it's only a matter of moments before he tilts sideways slightly, their shoulders brushing against each other. Alfred grins, leans over slowly so Arthur can see him coming and kisses him, Arthur leaning into it slightly, soft and warm pressure that feels... nice. Unhurried.   
  
They pull away after a moment, one of Arthur's hands lingering on Alfred's neck, his fingers twisting slightly into Alfred's hair. They breathe into the air between them and Alfred reaches out, pulling Arthur closer with one arm.   
  
"Hey, Arthur."  
  
"Yes?"   
  
"Don't move, okay?"   
  
Arthur is giving him a  _look_ , but Alfred ignores it, reaching out to pull up the switch that triggers a series of string and pulleys carefully rigged under the coffee table, through the jumble of consoles and up the opposite wall, and across from them midway up a low shelf, the metal plate of the old light-exposure daguerreotype slides up.   
  
Alfred watches Arthur turn slightly, green eyes catching on the solid, rectangular contraption, all polished metal and screws and hinge frames, nothing like the modern cameras of the current day.   
  
"Is that—"   
  
"Mmhm," Alfred hums, grinning down at the Briton. They're all into each other's space, Arthur practically crowded onto Alfred's lap, one hand still tucked up between Alfred's jacket and the exposed skin of his neck. "Don't move much now or you'll blur the film. I found the contraption in my closet the other day; it's been a while since we took photographs like this, huh? It's going to take a while for the image to set."   
  
It’s pretty amazing how Arthur manages to glare at him from an inch away, although the stare lacks a certain amount of heat. "You did this on purpose, didn’t you. This is a scheme so that you can squash into my personal space without me retaliating." But Arthur strokes his thumb over the same patch of skin over and over, lightly, and Alfred tries to suppress the shiver it evokes.   
  
He squeezes Arthur's waist. "Maybe. But the silvered daguerreotype portraits are pretty, aren't they?"   
  
Arthur’s looking up at him now; presses in closer to tuck his head against Alfred’s shoulder before looking to the side, smiling.   
  
“Yes. Yes, they are.” 

*

There’re a lot of impromptu calls and text messaging and everything else in between, but their Friday calls are pretty sacred, a weekly constant in their lives. The exact timing varies from week to week; the evenings and nights are common, but sometimes there’s an event Alfred can’t talk his way out of or obligations with the royal family for Arthur, and that’s when Alfred gets up a little earlier in the morning and Arthur takes an extended lunch break so they can have that hour or two completely to themselves, eating breakfast and lunch together and bantering over the webcam.   
  
The evenings-and-night calls, though, those are almost always phone calls.   
  
Sometimes Alfred will stick the phone on speaker mode, but if he’s up and about then it’s the wireless Bluetooth headphone and microphone for him. Today’s a Bluetooth night for him – Alfred likes tinkering with small gadgets and contraptions when he’s talking to Arthur sometimes; his hands will wander on their own while his mind is completely preoccupied with Arthur himself, and the arrangement keeps him from getting too restless (“Stir crazy,” Arthur says, one time, “You always have to be fiddling with something”).   
  
It’s Alfred’s turn to call this week, since he’s the one with the meeting that ran over, and he dials the number and listens to the rings as he carefully works the daguerreotype open.   
  
Alfred knows what Arthur does on the other side of the Atlantic; the Briton will hold onto his phone the entire conversation. For someone who would slip on those minute microphones during covert operations with no hesitations, Arthur can be pretty stubborn when it comes to headphones or wireless speakers for everyday use.   
  
He’ll sit with a pot of tea and tea cup to one side, and sometimes he’ll work with crystals and herbs if he’s in the right mood. (“A purification ritual or a minor nature spell,” Arthur explains, and there’s a layer over his usual voice, like the rustle of the wind through a forest. “I’m calmer when I’m speaking with you, most of the time.”)  
  
But when the line connects, Arthur’s voice comes out clipped and short.   
  
“Arthur speaking.”   
  
Alfred pauses in the middle of popping open the daguerreotype’s metal covering.   
  
“It’s me.”   
  
There’s a soft exhalation, and then— “Alfred. Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention – it’s after work hours for you now?”   
  
It’s Arthur with hints of iciness in his tone, which is what Arthur always falls back to when he’s particularly riled or stressed, softened and toned down because it’s Alfred on the line. But there’s a controlled tightness in Arthur’s voice that makes Alfred sit up and put his screwdriver down, just in case he accidentally snaps off any of the daguerreotype’s many components; spare parts are pretty hard to come by.   
  
“Hey, everything okay?”   
  
“I’m fine.”   
  
The good thing about living across the ocean and not seeing each other every day is that when Alfred’s feeling under the weather or something is wrong and he doesn’t want to share anything yet, he can just laugh it off over the phone and make sure he doesn’t look overly sickly or tired on the webcam (HD quality aside, computer cameras can only show so much).   
  
The problem with all of that is that Arthur can do the exact same thing.  
  
“Are you sure?”   
  
“Yes, I’m sure.”  
  
“Because you sound kind of…”   
  
“Yes? Like what?”   
  
Alfred chews at his bottom lip for half a minute, weighing his dignity against honesty, and then makes the jump because that’s what awesome heroes do for their boyfriends.   
  
“Hey, I know you don’t need anyone to worry over you but you know I still do, right?”   
  
It takes Arthur a moment to figure out that twisted sentence, and then there’s a sharp inhale over the line. They walk circles around each all the time, candidness in the conversation is like an electric shock to the system.   
  
Arthur finally sighs, a short, tired sound. “Who’s the mother hen now? I’ll be fine, it’s just a blasted migraine; I’ve suffered worst.”   
  
“Oh.” Alfred gives an odd sort of laugh, half amused and half relieved. He kicks his chair back on its heels, holding one of the daguerreotype lenses out to catch the light streaming from the bright overhead lamps. “Well, that’s good! That, you know, it’s not anything worse.”   
  
Arthur sniffs. “Is that so?”   
  
“I bet it’s all those meetings you’ve been having. It’s like an EU thing. You guys can’t beat the shit out of each other properly because of your bosses and all, so you just, y’know. Give each other horrible headaches by stirring up as much trouble as possible.”   
  
“So it’s not that they’re targeting me, per say; it’s merely a side effect, is that it?”   
  
“Hey, you can vent if you want. It’ll make you feel a hell of a lot better. You can be pretty repressed sometimes.”   
  
“Oh, fuck off.”   
  
“Now that’s the spirit!”   
  
Arthur hisses at him over the phone, and Alfred remembers that loud voices and migraines don’t go well together.   
  
“How about this.” Arthur’s tone is irritable, but at least the subtle veneer of pain in his voice is gone. “I’m on the phone with an overly enthusiastic loudmouth who has yet to master the concept of when to use indoor voices and when to use outdoor voices.”  
  
Alfred laughs, loud and boisterous, and flicks the lens upward with his thumb, the glass catching and scattering light as it flips through the air. “You picked up the phone.”   
  
“I can still hang up on you.”   
  
“Nah. You’d have done that earlier if you were going to.”   
  
There’s a pause.   
  
“It’s been a horrible day.” It would sound like a complaint from anyone else, but it’s Arthur, so it comes out aloof and a little disdainful, a statement of fact.   
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Yes.”   
  
There are a lot of things Alfred can say; he can joke about the entire situation, he can continue jabbing at Arthur to distract him or complain about his own day or maybe persuade (or argue) Arthur into just popping an aspirin and going to bed and sleeping off the migraine like any other sane person would do. It’ll be easy to just say whatever he wanted, but Alfred bites down on his tongue and waits, alternately flicking the daguerreotype lens like an oversized coin and catching it in his hand.   
  
It’s something that Matthew still doesn’t quite believe, but Alfred’s learned to just shut up sometimes. That’s the whole point of a relationship; it’s not just about him and what he wants to do anymore.   
  
The silence has a charged quality to it, like Arthur’s thinking of words but not saying them out loud, and Alfred just waits until Arthur takes a breath and starts talking.   
  
“Everyone knows we’re balancing on the brink of some horrible economic crisis and yet despite our best efforts on drawing up a plan or a policy someone always has to disagree; in fact, we’re lucky we have any agreement at all instead of widespread chaos. If I could just punch some sense into some nations – and instead their bloody foreign ambassadors have been harassing me  _all day_ —“  
  
It’s like he’s triggered a switch; Arthur normally has no qualms about picking fights with the other nations but everyone’s been walking on egg shells lately, tense and on edge, and keeping their tempers as to not set off an all out brawl. Arthur barely seems to pause for breath, the way he’s going through all the grievances he’s had to keep silent on.   
  
The Briton eventually winds down to cursing quietly under his breath, and it’s kind of funny that Alfred doesn’t know which he’s really doing: cussing or hexing someone with that black magic of his. He’s speaking what Alfred thinks is Old English, all sharp consonants and odd-sounding vowels. Alfred focuses in on the timbre of Arthur’s voice as he waits for Arthur to work that out of his system, still captivating and low and rhythmic even though echoes of irritation linger in the way Arthur snaps off the ends of his words.   
  
“You’re not actually speaking English anymore,” Alfred breaks in when Arthur finally goes quiet, breathing a little heavier than usual, and there’s the clink of porcelain hitting porcelain, a tea cup against its saucer.   
  
“That just made my headache worse,” Arthur finally mutters.   
  
“Feel any better?”   
  
“… A little.” Arthur sounds a little surprised at the fact. “Alfred.”   
  
“Yep?”   
  
“I’m going to have another cup of peppermint tea, and then I’m going to head to bed.”   
  
“Yeah, you always did get really cranky when you’re tired—”   
  
Arthur doesn’t bother raising his voice; he’s using that focused, no-nonsense tone that cuts right through Alfred’s flippant banter. “But before that – are you all right?”   
  
Alfred lets his chair tip back onto its four legs. “What, me? I’m not the one with a migraine.”   
  
“No, I meant—” Arthur blows out a breath, and the sound of it crackles over the line. “You’ve had a long day yourself, right? It’s your Congress meeting day.”   
  
“Yeah, but it’s the weekend.” Alfred snatches the lens out of the air one last time, and snaps it back into the daguerreotype. “Not gonna let any of that ruin my night if I can help it.”  
  
“Are you sure—we’re repeating our earlier conversation, aren’t we?”   
  
“Yep.” Alfred begins putting the daguerreotype back together with practiced ease, everything except for the silver plate that’s currently sitting in his impromptu dark room. “Go to bed, Arthur. Seriously. Unless you want me to special order you a hamburger? Or a sandwich, a sandwich would fit on your head better, being English-y and all. Scone?”   
  
Arthur splutters on the other side of the line.   
  
“No? Right-o, I’ll call you in the morning!” Alfred says brightly.   
  
“I…” Arthur gives a little laugh. “All right. Have a good night, then.”   
  
“Yep. You too.”   
  
“And thank you,” Arthur says, quietly, pausing for a moment and then rushing on, “I do feel better.” And he quickly hangs up before Alfred can even respond.   
  
Alfred stares at the daguerreotype and the piles of tools scattered across his desk, and yep – totally grinning again. He wiggles off his headphones and grabs the daguerreotype, not particularly miffed that their Friday night conversation’s been short this week. He’s got a little side project to work on in the basement, anyway. 

*

The holidays are the worst times to visit. Christmas, New Year’s, Easter; if it isn’t a giant bash with all the nations of the world out to wreck drunken havoc in one way or another, it’s their own governments clamoring at them to stay within their borders and amongst their own people during such auspicious days.   
  
So Alfred takes a week off in mid-December and flies up to London so he doesn’t have to fight with the intense crowds Christmas brings, although it’s clear the Britons are already in a festive mood. It snows the last two days of Alfred’s stay, a light coat of powdery snow dusting every open space – rooftops, window sills, the pines and evergreens; it catches and clings onto Arthur’s hair, and Alfred reaches out and brushes his fingers through the blonde strands, the tips of them always a little rough even if they’re soft and fine at the roots.   
  
“I’m sure my hair will survive a little snowmelt,” Arthur says in a tone that could strip paint, although he’s still standing there in the middle of sidewalk, letting Alfred completely muss his hair up.   
  
“Yeah, well.” Alfred pulls away and grins. “Wouldn’t do if an old man like you caught a cold.”  
  
Arthur gives him an arched look. “I’m not the one who is standing outdoors without a scarf or gloves.”   
  
It’s true; Alfred’s been shoving his hands into the pockets of his bomber jacket for warmth, but dragging his fingers through Arthur’s hair had been pretty tempting even if he’d had to suffer the cold for it.   
  
It’s a lot chillier now, though, the sun setting and streetlights flicking on around them, throwing circlets of light against the growing darkness. Alfred brings his hands to his mouth, blowing on them to warm them up.   
  
“You’re cold, aren’t you?” Arthur says, looking smug behind his scarf.   
  
“Not really.” Alfred shoves his hands back into his pockets, clenching them into fists to trap heat within them. “You gonna offer to warm me up?”   
  
Arthur sighs, gazing skywards, too dignified to roll his eyes, then says, “What if I said I am?”   
  
Alfred turns, incredulous. “What, really?”   
  
Arthur tugs off a glove, one finger at a time, then catches Alfred’s hand, pulling the glove on for him. It’s tight on Alfred but fits with the wrist snaps unclasped, the leather still warm from Arthur’s body heat.   
  
“There,” Arthur says, taking a prim step backward and not quite able to hide the roguish smile.   
  
Alfred laughs, not really all that disappointed, and wiggles his fingers in front of Arthur’s face. “Hey, now we’re a matched set. One warm hand and one cold hand.”   
  
“Two warm ones,” Arthur corrects, and swiftly snags Alfred’s bare hand with his own, lacing their fingers together and drawing them to his lips to brush a light kiss over Alfred’s knuckles before tucking his hand back into the pocket of his trench coat.   
  
And well, because Arthur hasn’t let go, Alfred’s hand gets pulled along for the ride. Arthur has an aristocrat’s hands, deceptively slim and fragile, but all it takes is the sight of Arthur handling that saber of his to wipe any thoughts of fragility away, or the way he always grips back, strong and steady and Alfred’s not getting his hand back any time soon.  
  
Not that he wants to. It’s warm and Arthur’s holding on with a grip strong enough to bruise if it’s anyone but Alfred he’s holding on to, their hands all tangled up together in the crammed space of the pocket.  
  
“Works for me,” Alfred says, and squeezes Arthur’s hand back.   
  
A smile flashes across Arthur’s face before he gives a light tug on their entwined hands. They continue their way down the street back towards Arthur’s house, their shoulders brushing every few steps.   
  
A hint of warmth always lingers in Arthur’s house, a welcome respite from the chilly outdoors. Arthur unwinds the scarf from his neck and stops right there in the foyer, raising one hand absentmindedly to brush his windswept hair from his eyes before slowly unclasping the snaps of his trench coat. Alfred watches Arthur, and then reaches forward to hook an arm around Arthur’s waist from behind, leaning his chin against Arthur’s shoulder.   
  
“What’re you thinking about?”   
  
Arthur stares outwards into the darkness of the corridor, then twists within the circle of Alfred’s arm to face him.   
  
“You,” Arthur says, very softly. “Just you.”   
  
And then his head snaps up, the faintest hint of a blush spreading across his cheeks. “Rather hard not to, with you plastered all over me like this.”   
  
“Yeah?” Alfred grins down at him. “Well, have an extra squashy hug so you don’t forget.”   
  
He tightens his arms around Arthur, hugging Arthur’s lean, compact form against him until he almost lifts the Briton off his feet.   
  
“Stop—put me down!” Arthur says breathlessly, half-laughing, and frees one arm from Alfred’s embrace to cuff Alfred lightly across the shoulder.   
  
“Okay, okay.” Alfred swings Arthur around anyway, leaning up against the door frame with Arthur still tucked up against him – it’s exactly where Alfred wants him to be, of course, but the move also puts Arthur’s back to Alfred’s luggage sitting just down the corridor, all packed up and ready to be stashed in the boot of the airport taxi that’s supposed to arrive within the hour.   
  
Arthur’s open trench coat flares around them and Alfred sneaks his hands, one bare and one gloved, under Arthur’s shirt and vest, stroking at the warm skin underneath.   
  
“Gonna miss this,” Alfred whispers into Arthur’s hair.   
  
Arthur doesn’t say anything, but Alfred feels hands curling into his bomber jacket and clutching tight, pulling the fabric taut across his back.   
  
“But it’s not all that bad!” Alfred says. “Most of the time, I’m like way too busy to miss you. Much.”   
  
Arthur snorts, a puff of air that Alfred feels as much as hears. “Thank you, Alfred, that makes me feel so much better. I won’t miss your loud voice and your terrible eating habits either.”   
  
“Yeah, well, you know…” Alfred runs his fingers along the bumps of Arthur’s spine, finally settling in the small of his back, and waits for Arthur to glance up at him. "When we're together, I'm just... with you. But when we're apart, I’m thinking of you and the next time I’ll be with you. That's always something to look forward to.”  
  
Sometimes Alfred forgets how daunting it can be to have Arthur completely focused on him, eyes intense with concentration, leaning back slightly to meet Alfred’s gaze head on. It makes something shiver under Alfred’s skin, electrifying, and he has to take a breath to calm his crazily jolting heart.   
  
Alfred can’t look away.   
  
“It's the journey that matters, right?” he says into the space between them, a whispered secret. “How many couples out there get to fall in love all over again every time they meet?"  
  
Alfred’s gotten really good at interpreting the cadences of Arthur’s words, the tone of his voice and the quality of silence from all those phone calls when those are all the cues he has to go on, but it really is so much better with Arthur looking up at him with those green, green eyes, and to feel those slim fingers brushing against Alfred’s cheek before sweeping up into his hair.   
  
“You are such a hopeless romantic,” Arthur murmurs, and that’s nice too, to hear him without the static of distance and technology getting in the way. And this time, this time Alfred can see the smile to match the tenderness in Arthur’s voice.   
  
Alfred curls his arms tighter around Arthur’s waist, just holding on and feeling Arthur there holding him in return. There’s going to be the honk of a taxi in a couple of minutes and a flight later in the evening to separate them once again, but this one moment of closeness is theirs and theirs to keep. 

*

It’s always kind of depressing when Alfred first steps into his house in DC after visiting London. It’s comfortably familiar but just a little cold and dark after a week without anyone living in it, and well.   
  
Arthur isn’t here with him.   
  
Alfred snaps on the lights, shoving his suitcase into a corner of his living room and heading straight for his coffee machine. He isn’t going to deny it – it's damn nice being back in his own country; it’s his people, his streets, his land of opportunity, but it’s more than that. There’s something about being home that speaks to the part of Alfred that’s the nation, the United States of America, and the feeling is reassuring even if he’s still suffering from Arthur-withdrawal.   
  
He wanders back out, coffee mug in one hand, to dig out his laptop out from his briefcase, and a familiar bundle of fabric tumbles out from a side pocket. Alfred recognizes it the moment he touches it – soft cashmere in creamy brown, Arthur’s own scarf. There’s a little note pinned to one end and Alfred flattens the little paper scrap out even as he loops the scarf around his neck. 

> _Now that you’re back at your home, take a look in that box I stashed under the one chair you never use for anything in your living room. Hunt for the green label. And keep the scarf; I can’t have you freezing to death across the Atlantic._

Alfred’s trying hard to squash it down, but he’s definitely getting that happy giddy feeling, as if a big ball of warmth is coalescing in his chest. He snuggles a little into the scarf; it still smells like sharp, clean air and Earl Grey, a combination that purrs _Arthur_ to Alfred's senses, which makes sense – Arthur’d been wearing the same scarf up until just before Alfred got into the taxi to the airport.   
  
He wonders if he ever has to wash the scarf – do you wash cashmere? Dry clean? – as he pulls out the box and lifts off the cover, revealing an entire box of vinyl records, the seven-inch kind. They’re missing their title labels; instead of spotting the song or album title and artist name, they’re simply color coded. The green labeled record in its cardboard sleeve stares right up at him from atop the pile.   
  
Alfred’s half impressed and half disbelieving at how detailed Arthur can be, but mostly he’s busy unearthing the old turntable from underneath a pile of comics and wires. He dusts it off, then sets the record spinning before gently lowering the needle.  
  
“ _As I write this letter, send my love to you. Remember that I’ll always be in love with you._ ”   
  
He recognizes the voice immediately; Alfred had caught the Beatlemania fever just as much as his own people had back in the 60s. There’s the distinct beat of maracas in the background and Paul McCartney croons out the next lyrics, “ _Treasure these few words till we’re together. Keep all my love forever. P.S. I love you. You, you, you._ ”   
  
It’s a happy little ditty, completely and unapologetically sappy, and Alfred’s flushing, he can feel the heat on his cheeks.   
  
“Who’s the hopeless romantic now?” Alfred mutters, and he doesn’t care about the time over in London; he heads straight for his phone anyway, only detouring briefly to pick up his abandoned coffee mug. He wonders if Arthur’s found Alfred’s own gift to him on the bedside table yet, the pretty silvered daguerreotype portrait of the two of them Alfred had taken the last time Arthur had been at his place.   
  
Alfred hopes Arthur likes it as much as Alfred likes his quotes and hidden treasures.   
  
His phone begins ringing as Alfred picks up the mug from atop the television; it’s Arthur, Alfred can tell from the ringtone. He breathes in the rich aroma of coffee, humming along to the sound of maracas and the Beatles singing in the background as he goes to pick up the phone.   
  
“Alfred?” There’s a restrained, happy lilt to Arthur’s voice, and Alfred knows he’s seen the portrait and  _really_  likes it, apparently.   
  
It might be another two months before they see each other again, but right here, right now, with Arthur’s scarf curled around his neck and Arthur’s voice filling his ears, all Alfred feels is warm contentment.   
  
Alfred throws himself onto his couch and grins into the phone.   
  
“Hey, Arthur!” he says, and Arthur chuckles, half a world away, but by Alfred's side all the same.

**Author's Note:**

> \- Credits for quotes, in order of appearance: [Play] William Shakespeare, _The Tempest_ ; [Poem] John Donne, _[A Valediction Forbidding Mourning](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/173387)_ ; [Song] Owl City, _[Cave In](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kGSB98RskJM&)_ ; [Song] The Fray, _[Over My Head (Cable Car)](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fFRkpvvop3I&ob=av2e)_ ; [Movie] _Star Wars_ (quote attributed to Yoda); [Novel] Jane Austen, _Pride and Prejudice_ ; [Song] Beatles, _[P.S. I Love You](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hwpBUQSSnwA)_.
> 
> \- Daguerreotypes, the first commercially successful photographic process, was invented in the 1820s, lasting to about the 1860s. In recent years, however, a niche group of photographers have reintroduced the daguerreotype as a art medium. A great example of modern daguerreotypes are [Jerry Spagnoli's](http://www.jerryspagnoli.com/Daguerreotype%20Projects/daguerreotypepro.html) work. I believe the blue of the sky in many of the portraits are hand-tinted with color during the exposure process.
> 
> Personal experience - A photographer colleague once brought in an old daguerreotype he'd unearthed from his attic and took shots of people in the office. The portraits came out with the really pretty faded almost monochrome-sepia effect, and are hardly as creepy as some of the very old daguerreotype portraits appear to be. This is the contraption I've based Alfred's daguerreotype on ~~I'm not actually 100% certain that that was a daguerreotype, but it certainly looked similiar.~~


End file.
